


Masking for a Friend

by ForASecondThereWedWon



Series: Spidey-shots, Spidey-shots, Am I done yet? No, I'm not [19]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Peter's getting the hang of this babysitting thing, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Prompt Fic, Tony Stark Lives, Tumblr Prompt, in this house we practice denial, just a lot of soft bonding between Tony's biological and nonbiological children, or even... wait for it... instead of Endgame?, though Morgan isn't making it easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 03:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForASecondThereWedWon/pseuds/ForASecondThereWedWon
Summary: How do you entertain a kid who's not into Lego?





	Masking for a Friend

“I don’t know...” Peter trails off, scanning his bedroom (again) as Morgan sits―impatient and cross-legged―on the floor, watching him. “I don’t really have a lot of tech-type stuff you can play with. You’re sure you don’t like Lego?”

“Lego’s for babies,” Tony’s daughter informs him with that snappy Stark certainty. She’s _five_.

“What about checkers? I think my Aunt May has a board around someplace.”

“Do you have any flamethrowers?”

His gaze zips back to the tiny, serious brunette on the carpet. She’s leaning forward now, playing with the loose toe of her striped sock.

“W-what?” Peter swallows. “We maybe have... Hungry Hungry Hippos?”

“Do you have nono-tech?”

“Nanotech,” he gently corrects, panicking on the inside because he’s supposed to watch Morgan for three hours and she’s been here seventeen minutes. “Not really, buddy. That’s kinda your dad’s thing. Maybe the next time I’m there, you can give me a tour of―”

“Do you have a skipping rope?” Morgan demands, folding forward and wriggling until she’s flat out on her stomach. She traces shapes in the rug (probably the numbers of the Fibonacci sequence or something, knowing whose child she is) while Peter stares at her with the silent desperation of the babysitter who really wants to impress the parents. Even if the dad is already his mentor and idol and, ok, kind of his parental figure too.

It’s her first request that doesn’t make him terrified for her safety―one he can actually grant―only, Peter doesn’t have a skipping rope.

“Uhhh...” he stalls, moving swiftly around the room.

Is there anything he could use as a skipping rope? He checks under his bed, opens desk and dresser drawers. More than once, he’s made one with his web-shooters, but he’s not convinced that would be totally safe―too sticky? Strangulation hazard? Maybe Morgan has an undiscovered sensitivity to one of the compounds in his web-fluid’s makeup? And he’d hate for her to get a hold of one of the web-shooters and accidentally fire it into her eye or something. Oh, god. Peter’s freaking out now. Is this how it would feel to be a dad? Why is it so hard to entertain her _and _make sure she doesn’t die?!

“That.”

Peter quits feeling around in the bottom of his backpack (for what?) and spins to see Morgan up on her eager little elbows, pointing at his open closet. At the suit hanging right in the middle of the rail (_Peter, you idiot_, he tells himself). Not the fancy-occasions suit―the red one.

“That?” he asks tentatively, like he’s the one with only a few years’ worth of vocabulary.

“I want that,” Morgan confirms and now she’s pushing up onto her knees.

Peter grabs her squishy little waist to both help her not stumble (she’s tugged her socks half-off in the state of extreme boredom that being around her dad’s prodigy apparently inspires) and to stop her from bolting forward.

“That?” Peter checks again. This prompts a patented Morgan Stark “someone’s-trying-to-bullshit-me” frown. “That’s nothing special.”

“Yes, it is,” she insists.

He laughs, caught off guard by her conviction. That happens a lot.

“Why do you think that?” Peter tickles her sides and she giggles, crumpling to escape. He swings her upwards, all the way up and onto his shoulders.

“’Cause Daddy said you’re special.” He doesn’t know what to say, but Morgan’s good at preventing conversational lapses. “You’re Spider-Man and you’re special and you have a special suit, even if you can’t shoot from your hands LIKE THIS!”

Her volume increase is as abrupt as the way she thrusts her arms straight out, small face serious, and Peter cranes his neck to witness her mimicking Iron Man.

“Wow,” he compliments earnestly. “That’s really good, Morgan. You wanna practice flying around?”

She only nods once, intent on blasting imaginary enemies, so Peter races around the room, bounding to careful landings on his chair and bed―crouching in between to give her an opportunity to shift the position of her arms (presumably eliminating various targets in multiple directions).

They end up next to the closet and Morgan tilts forward to touch her upside-down forehead to Peter’s.

“You also have good hair,” she says, buttering him up to submit to her whims.

Peter laughs and caves, hoisting her down.

“Just the mask, ok? You can’t try the suit on until you’re taller.”

He runs a hand across the top of her head, measuring it against his stomach. Mostly, this gesture just catches the ends of her hair because Morgan’s dashed for the closet. She picks up the mask where it lays beneath his hanging Spidey suit.

“Is Friday in here?” she asks excitedly as Peter kneels behind her, trying to wrangle her long enough to smooth her hair back and gather it in his hand behind her neck to keep it out of the way.

“Actually, my suit lady’s named Karen.”

“Ok,” Morgan says.

It’s obviously dismissive, because she yanks the mask down over her head. Peter snorts a laugh.

He isn’t sure how much conversation she’s going to get out of Karen, since the suit lady was tailored to Peter specifically. But it’s never a good idea to underestimate Tony Stark. Not his aptitude for tech, not his reach, not his talent for anticipating the strangest of circumstances. Because somehow Karen grants Morgan access to everything she wants to see (nothing dangerous though, so Peter knows there are definitely still wards in place), anything she wants to know.

It takes her less time to tear herself away from The Science than it does for her dad to do the same, and once she remembers Peter’s still there, they transform the apartment into obstacle courses and secret lairs made out of couch cushions and―get this―“play Spider-Man” (according to Morgan). Which is basically the proudest Peter’s ever felt, being looked up to by this kid.

She even deigns to dip her hands into his massive bucket of Lego bricks, then gives the kind of sarcastic, pitying, cut-you-off-at-the-knees sigh that can only come from a Stark.

**Author's Note:**

> I received a Tumblr request (find me as forasecondtherewedwon) for a fic where Peter babysits Morgan and she tries on the Spidey mask. Hope you enjoyed this quick story as I ease back into writing!


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